


The Torture of Small Talk

by anovelblogwrites



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Angst, Nikolina - Freeform, Post-Ruin and Rising, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 12:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17467307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anovelblogwrites/pseuds/anovelblogwrites
Summary: When Nikolai Lantsov and Alina Starkov saw each other for the first time in years, it was almost as easy between them as it always had been. Until it wasn’t.





	The Torture of Small Talk

**Author's Note:**

> normally i write nikolina in a specific a.u. but i’ve been feeling angsty so for the sake of ripping out my own heart, this one actually complies with the ending of ruin and rising. (title from the song ‘fourth of july’ by fall out boy. it’s a total banger, and i highly recommend)

\---  
 _You are my favorite **what if?**   
You are my best **I’ll never know.**_  
\---

As he stands alone at the edge of the ballroom, Nikolai is trying to decide if she wanted him to find her or not. She’s not dressed to stand out; her gown is a simple navy with long sleeves and a high neck. Her hair is down, and dark. The rich waves obscure her face from almost any angle, he wonders how many times he glanced past her before finally recognizing her.

He was standing amidst a large group of delegates and citizens alike when he realized that he was staring right at Alina Starkov. 

Her eyes widen, and his heart jumps into his throat. 

The process of politely detangling himself from their well-wishes and congratulations was arduous, and by the time Nikolai shook each hand and kissed the last delicate cheek, she had disappeared again. 

“Are you alright, your Highness?” A courtier balancing a tray of champagne flutes stops in front of him. “You look…” 

Undoubtedly afraid of insulting his king, the young man doesn’t finish his statement. 

_Like I’ve seen a ghost?_ Nikolai thinks to himself wryly as he scans the room. 

There. 

She is alone outside with her elbows propped on the ledge of the balcony, as if she’s waiting for something. Letting himself believe that it’s him, Nikolai walks outside. 

She lets him stare at her, drink in every detail of her face and compare it to the last time he’d seen her. The dark hair tumbles down to her waist, and Nikolai wonders if she’d taken to wearing it so long, or if Genya did that when she changed the color. He tries not to think about Genya, how long she must have kept this from him. 

Alina’s cheekbones have lost their youthful roundness, and her eyes seem deeper. She still stands with the pride of a queen. It makes his chest ache. 

The silence seems to drag on for an eternity, until she clears her throat and says, “I hope you don’t mind me dropping in without an invitation.” 

There was so much he wanted to say to her over the years. Bitter words of loss and abandonment. Confessions. Every joke that would have made her roll her eyes. He’d kept it all in the back of his mind for this exact moment, but all that comes out is, “Hi.” 

She smiles, and for just a moment, she looks young again. Her eyes shine, “You still have quite the way with words, I see.” 

It takes too long for him to find a smile, a response. “Perhaps I’ve just learned to edit myself.” 

She glances him over once, a much more casual observation than the one he’d paid her. Still, he feels stripped bare under her gaze. 

“Better late than never, I guess.” 

Alina’s lithe smile indicates that she’s just making a joke, but she’s here, on this night, saying those words. Nikolai can’t help but turn them over in his mind, like he might find another meaning hiding underneath. 

She’s looking at him like she’s said too much. She’s looking at him like she wants to say more. 

Her eyes flicker over her shoulder to the golden ballroom behind them. Perhaps watching for prying ears, and Nikolai wonders what she has to say that she doesn’t want anyone else to hear. He doesn’t want to hope for some kind of explanation or declaration, but he does. 

He is both relieved and disappointed when instead, she says, “You’re missing your party.” 

“It’s not _my_ party.” He stares at her intently, praying to anyone that might be listening that she understands his implication, “It’s for Ravka.” 

She nods faintly, meeting his eyes. Carefully, she says, “Ravka’s been waiting a long time.”

“I’ve been far too busy for parties.” His voice is flippant, as if he hasn’t spent every day wondering if she’s watching from wherever she’d gone. 

“I had to build my country up from ashes, prove my legitimacy,” his careless tone falters. He feels himself frowning, thinking about all of the fighting he’s had to do, even after the war ended. Against the court. Against himself. 

“I had to recover, and--” He doesn’t mean to say it, but then he looks at Alina, and he can’t help it, “I had to mourn for the woman I’d hoped to make my queen.” 

The words seem to hang heavy between them, so he continues, “She disappeared, you know.” He folds a hand over his heart and shakes his head solemnly, “It was all very tragic.” 

Alina shoots him a sour glare. “Technically, she died.” 

“Technically,” he counters, raising a challenging eyebrow, “she faked her own death.” 

She frowns at him, and she crosses her arms, like she wants to argue, but she just sighs and whispers, “I think part of me died.” 

Nikolai’s hands curl into fists at his sides. 

And suddenly the stars disappear from the sky, and again, he has been swallowed by darkness. He stares into it, and just when it starts to feel like something is staring back, she shakes his shoulder. Gently--as tentative as the worry in her eyes when he turns to face her. 

She’s standing closer than he thought she was. Close enough to share a breath, if only he could force himself to take one. 

He stands, frozen, as her hand moves slowly over his shoulder, and settles at the nape of his neck. Her fingers are cold against his flushed skin. 

“Alina,” he whispers airlessly. Her other hand rests on his chest, which is rising and falling chaotically. “I--”

He doesn’t know what he was going to say. He’s scared of what he was going to say. But it doesn’t matter because Alina interrupts him, “I want to kiss you.” 

She says it like it’s a secret. 

He reaches up to touch her face, and when his knuckles brush across the plane of her cheek, he wishes more than anything that he wasn’t wearing his gloves. His hand glides from her face into her hair, while the other wraps around her waist.

“I love it when you quote me.” 

He whispers the words into her neck, just below her ear. Alina’s pulse is fluttering under his lips as he leaves a soft and lingering kiss. Nikolai moves slowly, carefully. Following the path of his hand so gently he can barely feel the warmth of her cheek against his bottom lip. He stops precariously close to the corner of her mouth. 

The tilt of Alina’s chin is almost imperceptible, a subtle invitation. He turns his head, and his lips brushing against hers. It feels more like a memory than a kiss, fragile and fleeting. Nikolai aches for something more tangible, something boundless. He pulls her closer. 

Alina’s hand slips from his neck to his shoulder, before dropping lifelessly to her side. Suddenly cold and rigid in his arms. Nikolai reels back, trying to read her expression, but she’s not looking at him. 

Her eyes are fixed on the bustling ballroom behind him, wide and unblinking. He waits for the same panic to seize him, but despite the fact that there are guests wandering dangerously close to the balcony, it doesn’t come. 

It’s as if anything behind the half-drawn curtains doesn’t exist. Nikolai can’t hear the swell of the string quartet, or see anything but Alina and the three paces she’s suddenly put between them. The heat rising in her cheeks, and what looks like shame lurking in her eyes. 

The air between them--frigid and silent--is pulled tight. A brittle moment. Nikolai’s hands curl around the bannister of the balcony in a bruising grip. He surveys the faint glow of Ravka below. It’s humbling and it’s grounding. Most importantly, it’s a reminder. 

There are thousands of lives tied to his, and Alina Starkov’s is no longer one of them. 

“Okay,” He huffs out, raking a hand through his hair as he forces himself to look at her. “I give up on trying to figure it out for myself: why are you here, Alina?”

She shifts uncomfortably for a moment, and the pause is long enough for Nikolai to think she won’t answer him. Maybe, she doesn’t know herself. 

But then, she hooks her fingers around the glimmer of gold that circles around her neck and disappears beneath the bodice of her dress. She tugs until an emerald ring dangles in the air between them. 

She never sold it. He stares at it.

She keeps it around her neck. He stares at her.

“I--” she starts, but falls silent again. Her eyes squeeze shut and the hand over her heart curls into a fist. In one swift movement, the delicate chain around her throat snaps. She holds it in a white-knuckled grip for only a moment. 

“I thought you might need this back,” she finishes quietly, extending the necklace to him, but he can’t move. 

She takes his hand, and he can’t pull away. 

She drops the chain into his open palm, and he can’t take it. 

He doesn’t need it back. It’s too late for that, he wants to tell her. A different heirloom--almost as resplendent, almost as treasured--circles a different finger. Almost as resplendent, almost as treasured. 

She curls his fingers around it, her thumb brushing over the sliver of exposed skin between his glove and the cuff of his jacket so lightly he could have mistaken it for an accident. If not for the wistful gleam in her eyes. 

“Congratulations,” she says, swallowing hard and dropping her hand, “on your engagement.”

She leaves him alone on the balcony, and he doesn’t know how to let her go. 

She disappears into the crowd, and he doesn’t have a choice.


End file.
